


New Dogs and Old Tricks

by BrujaBanter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Character Study, Coming Out, Dirty Talk, Everyone Is Entirely Of Age, Group dynamics, Growing Old Together, Identity Issues, Kink Exploration, M/M, Marauders Fest 2020, Oral Sex, Power Play, Rimming, Sexual Content, Shifting perspectives, The Author Was Apparently Working Through Something, This Accidentally Got Filthy, Threesome - M/M/M, Top Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:55:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28848648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrujaBanter/pseuds/BrujaBanter
Summary: In which Harry's eyes aren't terribly like Lily's after all, wine glasses are foregone, Remus and Sirius fall more in love the older they get, and Harry certainly is not jealous.ORThe consequences of all the things Harry puts off for later.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin/Harry Potter
Comments: 5
Kudos: 49
Collections: Marauders Fest 2020





	New Dogs and Old Tricks

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Marauders Fest 2020 in response to the prompt: "AU where Sirius doesn't die; after the war, Sirius and Remus want to feel loved by James and Lily one last time."
> 
> This cannot possibly be what the prompter had in mind. Sometimes these take on a life of their own, and I can only hope that the love still comes through. I’ve never written Harry before, so naturally I made him a top and gave him the reigns. If it doesn’t work for you, you’ll have to take that up with him. I just did what he told me.
> 
> Stay well, lovelies.

Neither of them ever said it, but Sirius and Remus both knew that Harry did not, in fact, have Lily’s eyes.

Sirius said it off hand once, because he was exhausted and the color is the same. And Harry lit up, absolutely thrilled at the thought that he shared something more than DNA with two people he never really got to know. But it wasn’t really true. They aren’t the same. Harry’s eyes are almond-shaped and hooded, Lily’s round and open. And while Lily’s eyes opened like flowering buds, willing and eager and ready, Harry’s open like a Venus flytrap, reluctant and cautious and as if they might lose their grasp on the very thing that keeps them alive. Carnivorous, those eyes.

It’s that last bit that Sirius has come to take note of.

There was a time – many moons ago – in which Lily’s eyes were all James could talk about. “They’re so _green_ ,” he’d coo over breakfast, “and _big_ ,” he’d add over dinner. By pudding he’d be waxing poetic – “I can see my future in them, gents” – and Sirius eventually had to put a limit on the lovesick fool; he got one meal for Lily-talk and one meal only.

Sirius loves Remus’s eyes, but he doesn’t think he’s ever seen his future in them.

Still, Harry’s eyes speak volumes. When he was a baby, Sirius would pretend he could make sense of them, could know when Harry was hungry or sleepy or gassy from his eyes alone. When he saw Harry again – twelve years later – in the Shrieking Shack, he watched those same eyes change from vengeful to hateful to confused to relieved and back again, watched them widen and narrow and fill with tears that never quite fell. In the common room – during Harry’s fourth year – Sirius couldn’t make out much through the brightness of the flames through which he communicated, but he could see the fear quite plainly through those deep green orbs. And then later, as the war progressed and became heavier and heavier on Harry’s shoulders, as Dumbledore died and then Moody and then so many others, he watched something retreat behind those eyes. Something extinguished, snuffed out, disappeared into a place that Sirius could only hope wasn’t permanent.

He has no idea if it was permanent. He hasn’t seen it come back yet, for whatever that’s worth. But that reluctance, that dangerous thing, it’s remained. It’s stunning, whatever it is, reminds Sirius of so much more than just Lily’s face, reminds him of James and their Hogwarts days and the first war and all the joy, all the love and companionship that wasn’t lost to that war. And Lily, too. It reminds him of Lily. Just not her eyes. Not _only_ her eyes. Everything. Everything that was lost and a few things that weren’t, too.

And these days – well – maybe Sirius does see his future in those eyes, sometimes.

-*-

“Okay, chap?” Sirius says to his godson by way of greeting. It’s all he ever seems to say to anyone lately.

“When are you going to stop asking me that?” Harry replies. It’s not an answer, strictly speaking, but it does give Sirius some inkling of Harry’s mood today.

“When I finally die of old age,” Sirius responds. A perfectly timed twinge in his hip starts just then and he soothes it with an odd shifting of his weight and a cupped, backwards hand. “Which is any day now. Come on, then – it’s colder than Morgana’s tits outside.”

Harry steps into the foyer with the tiny bit of reluctance he always manages to pull from his never-ending personal stash of in undilutive out-of-placeness. Sirius claps him on the back with a firm, steadying hand and uses it to guide Harry towards the kitchen.

“Okay, Harry?” Remus looks up from the sauté pan he’s tending to. He’s wearing a blue, floral apron that just barely ties around his sturdy middle.

“We’ve already done this routine,” Sirius says, stepping behind Remus to grab the flagon of Ogden’s from the bar cart, cupping his husband’s arse in the process.

If Harry’s pants tighten a bit at the display, well then, that’s a problem for later.

“Can I help?” Harry asks.

“Nope,” Sirius and Remus say together.

“You can drink,” Sirius offers instead, placing a clear snifter down in front of him and filling it with a generous pour. Harry doesn’t protest, taking rather a larger gulp than the acerbic amber liquid calls for.

“Cheers,” Sirius tilts his own glass towards Harry and takes a more modest sip of his own.

If Harry watches his throat move as he swallows, well then, that’s a problem for later.

“Set the table, love, would you?” Remus says passively to Sirius. Sirius gives a playful salute, placing his glass a few inches from Harry’s and going for the dinner plates.

With both of them distracted, Harry switches his own glass with Sirius’s and takes a long draw from it. It’s diluted with Sirius-taste, heady and a little sour. If that makes Harry’s mouth water, well then…

“Soup’s on.”

They eat in comfortable silence, Harry falling into step with the routine of two men who have shared more meals together than separately. When they finish, Sirius begins to gather their plates and flatware. Remus fixes Sirius with a warm, familiar smile and wipes the corners of his mouth with his napkin before turning his attention back to Harry.

“So then,” Remus says, interlacing his fingers and resting them on the place where he plate was moments ago. His voice is gravelly with the spices from their curry. “How’s the new flat?”

Harry shrugs. “S’fine. Got everything I need. Close to work.”

“And it’s got a spare room for when the kids come to stay?” Sirius asks from his spot in front of the kitchen sink. He’s put on Remus’s blue apron, which does funny things to Harry’s head.

“Yep,” Harry says, a little strangled though he passes it off with a clearing of his throat. Deep down it probably hurts – or something to that effect. Ginny got the house.

Remus knows better than to outright ask Harry how he’s actually doing. But his eyes do it for him, narrowing as they study Harry’s face, and it’s almost worse that way. Harry might prefer that he just came out with it.

“We’ve said it before, lad, but there’s always a home for you here,” Sirius says with forced lightness, wiping his hands on the tea towel.

Harry wonders what it must be like to be in a relationship in which the singular becomes so blissfully lost. _We’ve said it before_ , or _come over and we’ll make you dinner_ , or _we’ve just heard from Arthur; says Ron and Hermione are expecting again_ – always plural. Always together. Harry supposes he never really planned on knowing what that’s like.

“Thanks,” Harry says, and, “I know.”

“Poker?” Sirius suggests, knowing that this particular conversation has come to its not entirely natural end.

Poker’s become a habit for the three of them. It gives them something to do with their hands and minds, keeps Remus and Sirius from fussing over him and keeps Harry from thinking about the wrinkles that form at the corners of Remus’s eyes when he studies Harry. Keeps him from obsessing about them, at least.

Remus gives a single, decisive nod. “Bring the pudding.”

-*-

Harry’s marriage didn’t crumble so much as it dissolved. Each day, there was simply less and less of it. There were no pieces to pick up and glue back together like shattered porcelain, no deeply entrenched issues to sort out and fight over and resent each other for. There just slowly became…nothing. That was easier for the children, Harry supposes, and for Ginny too. But it was harder for him.

After the war, Harry found himself constantly searching for the drama of wartime, the urgency of fleeting hours and days and not knowing who was alive or dead.

“You’re learning how to love each other during peacetime,” Sirius said to him over tea one afternoon, when Harry was beginning to admit aloud that something wasn’t right between him and Ginny. “It’s different.”

He could have assumed as much. But if anything, he thought it would be _easier_. Without Voldemort’s constant threat, Harry wasn’t overburdened with innumerable pressures, with the duty of saving the entirety of the Wizarding world itself. He could focus on Ginny, focus on their relationship and himself and building a life that was something akin to permanent. And then, slowly, he began to realize that it wasn’t the permanence he didn’t want. It was the company. Not Ginny’s – per se – but _anyone’s_. And then, slowly, he began to feel strangled by the idea of forever, by the new burdens and pressures and duties of partnership and family, found himself pining for the days when all that rested on his shoulders was everything. It’s not everything now, and if some people collapse under pressure, Harry collapses under the absence of it. Things were so slow, everyone so patient. And then one day…

 _Poof_.

No fanfare. No drama. Just nothing.

Harry went to his godfathers’ home to lick his metaphorical wounds. But what he found there cut deep slashes into the places where there’d only been bruising. What he found there was permanence.

Remus got up every morning and brewed coffee – a pot for Sirius and a cup for Harry – and placed it awkwardly on the kitchen table in a way that told Harry he’d normally just bring it back to their bed, present company notwithstanding. Sirius would grumble his way down the stairs, half asleep on his legs, and plop himself into an empty chair, propping his slippered feet up on the table. Remus would look at him disapprovingly, but say nothing, and then the disapproval would turn to admiration, and he’d place a small kiss on the top of Sirius’s head, and Sirius would smile for the first time since waking up. And then – throughout the day – they traded little bits of sunshine back and forth, little touches and newspaper sections and updates on the milk delivery and they seemed to breathe life itself back into each other, so that by the time they went to bed, they were more alive than when they woke up.

Sometimes – more often than not, even – Harry could hear them making love through the echoing hallways. More life. More sunshine. More permanence.

Needless to say, Harry couldn’t stomach it. He moved out long before any of them had originally intended and pretended it had to do with a new work assignment. None of them bought it.

And so Harry grew resentful of the two men who loved him more than anything, who took him in when he needed them most and loved him back to – if not wholeness, then at least health. Relative health. Healthier, at least. Or, that’s what they all liked to pretend.

-*-

“I don’t think he’s doing so well, Moony,” Sirius says to Remus one evening.

“Is it possible you don’t think anyone is ever doing well, darling?” Remus says back distractedly, not raising his eyes from his book.

“I’m talking about Harry,” Sirius replies, descending down the ladder he pulled out to adjust some of the wedding photos they’d hung a bit higher than was practical.

(They’d been talking idly of Tom Hardy not moments ago, hence Remus’s confusion. He catches up quickly. Sirius has a tendency to change topics faster than even he can keep up with.)

“What makes you say that?” Remus says, closing his novel and giving his full attention to the conversation.

Sirius shrugs, but it doesn’t quite come off as unconcerned. “He’s not coming ‘round nearly as much, not owling – I spoke to Ron the other day, says he and Hermione haven’t heard from him much either.”

“Maybe he’s just busy with work, Pads,” Remus replies. He’s not entirely sure why – he’s had his own concerns of late, too.

“Bit too busy, I’d say,” Sirius says, making himself comfortable on Remus’s left knee. Remus places a kiss to his temple. “If he can’t even bother to pay his old godfathers a visit every fortnight or so.”

Remus swells a bit. He doesn’t know when it happened, but he became one of Harry’s honorary godfathers long ago, and the title still fills him with bittersweet memories of the two people who doled out the title over – fuck – over _thirty years_ ago.

“Why don’t we ask him over for Sunday roast?” Remus asks, running a few fingers absentmindedly through the loose bits of hair that frame Sirius’s face.

“Hm,” He responds distractedly, rises to his feet again and heads for the kitchen.

The night James and Lily asked Sirius to be Harry’s godfather is seared in Remus’s memory. Lily was enormously pregnant – further evidence that they’d put off the decision as long as they possibly could – and she shuffled uncomfortably in her seat after a dinner of Chinese takeaway and homemade cake. They’d asked all three of them to be there – Sirius and Remus and…and Peter, too – and Lily had gone into a long and tearful monologue on how much she and James loved all three of them – _equally_ , she emphasized over and over – and how they wished they could bestow the title on all three of them and _why_ couldn’t they, again, James? And, oh yeah, right, the Magical decree, they could pick two but not three, and they certainly weren’t going to do that–

It took her over half an hour to get to the point. None of them were surprised, nor offended, but Lily still cried as they announced Sirius as godfather. She pulled Remus aside later, “It’s just because he has no family of his own, Remus, _please_ don’t be offended,” and he really wasn’t. He really, really wasn’t. But the care with which Lily and James considered the decision, the care with which they presented it so as to honor the closeness of their relationships, the way that Lily’s belly felt pressed between them as she hugged him tight…

Fuck, he misses them. Thirty years on, and sometimes he swears it hurts just the same.

Sirius returns from the kitchen with two steaming mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits balanced precariously over one forearm. He hands one of the mugs to Remus before cozying himself back into his husband’s lap, sipping his tea indulgently.

Remus is overcome with a different kind of nostalgia. Thirty-plus years on, and he swears he loves Sirius more every day. God knows they fought for it.

“So Sunday, then?” Remus asks.

“Sunday.”

-*-

“And we’ve talked of planting some more tomatoes, but they’re just so damn hard to keep upright. Mostly we need to find a good charm to keep the birds away, come spring,” Remus finishes. They’re nearly through the roast and have spent the entire meal engaged in talk of the garden. Remus is certain it is not an accident that Harry keeps bringing the topic round to perennials and mulch, but he’s talked more this evening than he has in recent memory, so Remus lets him. Sirius, on the other hand…

“Speaking of – what about you?” Sirius asks, changing the subject with the kind of clumsy grace only he can manage. “Any birds hanging around?”

Remus rolls his eyes at the wordplay, but his cheer is short-lived as he watches Harry’s face drop, his fork freeze midway to his mouth.

“Harry?” Remus asks gently.

“No,” Harry says. It’s a little hard, a little sudden. “No, no _birds_.”

The way he says the last word feels intentional, sarcastic and biting, and it seems to settle on Sirius and Remus at exactly the same time. They look at each other, communicate a great many things between a few raised eyebrows, and then Remus gives a small nod towards Harry, a _you take this one, Sirius_.

“Harry, is there something you, erm…” Sirius says, clearing his throat. He sounds more thoughtful than he has in years, which makes the next bit all the more perplexing. “You know, Remus and I are gay.”

Remus jerks his head to look at Sirius, before he drops it slowly into his hands and shakes it disbelievingly. Never send a dog to do wolf’s work, he supposes.

“Yeah,” Harry says, dry as a bone. “Yeah, I’d sort of figured that much out for myself.”

“Harry,” Remus says, reaching for Harry’s forearm, trying to salvage this…somehow. He can’t help but grin though, can’t help but chuckle, and then Sirius does the same, bubbling it up into more of a fully formed laugh. And then Harry, too, cracks a smile, and then the cracks widen and a laugh begins to erupt from them, and soon, all three of them are _cackling_. Sirius is bent over tending a stomach cramp and Harry has his head thrown back and Remus does his best to take it all in, the beauty of their smiling faces and the warm sound of true, genuine, full laughter filling the dining room.

It’s minutes before any of them has gained their composure, and by then, tears have begun to leak from Remus’s eyes. He wipes them away with a napkin, and then balls it up and throws it at Sirius.

“Absolute _idiot_ ,” He says playfully, clasping his hands in front of himself.

Sirius is still working his way through a few final chuckles as he gathers their plates and takes them to the sink.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Remus says, watching Sirius affectionately. “I don’t think that came out the way he intended.”

“I don’t think _Harry_ came out the way he intended,” Sirius says from his spot in front of the kitchen sink, causing another wave of uproarious laughter to spill from all of them.

“Okay, okay,” Remus says with a placating hand as Sirius returns to the table with a bottle of wine. He looks intentionally at Harry. “Harry. _Was_ there something you wanted to tell us?”

A bit of the glee drops from Harry’s face – just a bit – and Remus is sad to see it go.

“I suppose,” Harry says quietly, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. He takes a deep breath, and forces himself to look up, at neither of them in particular. “But I don’t think ‘gay’ is quite the word. I think…I don’t know. I’ve just been…experimenting, I guess.”

“Experimenting is good,” Sirius says. He takes a swig of the wine and passes it to Remus, who looks at him incredulously before taking a small swig of his own. “It’s how you learn what you like. Eh, Remus?”

“Definitely,” Remus says, passing the bottle to Harry, who takes it gratefully. “Nothing wrong with a little experimentation.”

“You might not say that if you knew…” Harry begins, the last few words getting lost inside the bottle as he takes a much longer drink. The look on Sirius’s face tells Remus the words aren’t lost on either of them.

“Knew what?” Sirius says. His voice is gentle, but Remus knows him well enough to recognize shit-eating curiosity when he hears it.

“Nothing,” Harry says, passing the bottle back to Sirius.

“I don’t think so, laddie,” Sirius says, slapping Harry playfully on the shoulder. “Spill.”

Harry wrings his hands long enough for the wine to make it back to him. When it does, he drinks what Remus thinks might be half the bottle. His lips come away red-tinted and swollen, and he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth before handing the bottle on to Sirius.

“I can tell you anything…right?” Harry sounds so small when he says it, practically fifteen again.

“Of course,” Remus says at the same time as Sirius says, “anything.”

Harry breathes through his nose, and then says very quickly, as if afraid he might change his mind, “I’ve been trying some different things,” He says, the word ‘different’ sounding like a code word neither of them can quite work out without more context. Sirius looks as if he’s just about to ask for clarification when Harry says, “bondage, dominance, power, that kind of thing.”

Remus’s mouth might drop open just a tick, but Sirius betrays nothing at all. In fact, Sirius looks…pleased.

“Good for you,” He says, passing the bottle back to Remus, who hesitates a moment before taking it. “Good for you, Harry.”

Harry looks up sheepishly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah!” Sirius says. “You know, Remus and I used to…dabble.”

Remus shoots him a stern look, clearly disagreeing on what kinds of things are fit for public consumption. “Sirius…”

“Oh, come now,” Sirius says back, “We’re all adults here.”

Remus wants to object, but Harry’s shoulders have dropped at least a few inches, a kind of relief washing over his face that makes him appear younger and calmer and happier than he has in some time.

“Really?” Harry ask, voice tinged with something that isn’t quite disbelief, but is…oh. Remus thinks maybe he recognizes that look, thinks maybe he can remember wanting to feel it more than he wanted anything. Home.

“Yes,” Remus says, because there was nothing quite like that feeling. “A while ago. But yes.”

“What kind…” Harry begins, but stops, looking back and forth between them for permission. They must grant it, because he continues. “What kind of…I mean, which of you…”

“It changed,” Sirius supplies without a single hint of embarrassment. “Usually Moony. He’s the more dominant of the two of us, Harry, though he’d _never_ allow me to admit it–”

“Padfoot!” Remus chastises. “I believe you just did.”

“Well, cat’s out of the bag now then,” Sirius says playfully. “No use denying it.”

“I would have thought…” Harry begins thoughtfully, “I suppose I would have thought that Sirius would be the more…you know.”

“Sirius’s bark is infinitely worse than his bite, Harry,” Remus replies. He has no idea why. The wine must be getting to him.

“Whereas Remus’s bite…”

“Padfoot!” Remus barks, but it is, indeed, lacking. Sirius just shrugs.

“Why did you stop?” Harry asks, and yes, his voice is definitely slightly tinged with drink.

Remus and Sirius exchange a glance. “Oh,” Sirius begins, “because we got old, I suppose. Well, Remus did–ow!”

Remus has reached over the table to swat Sirius playfully across the face. If Sirius does, indeed, miss the spankings, then he’s well on his way to gunning for one.

Harry is giggling, a small, melodic little thing. It’s lovely.

“What Sirius means, Harry,” Remus says, looking at Harry, “is that other things got in the way. Life, you know.”

Harry nods as if deeply considering what Remus is saying. And then he asks something that neither of them were quite ready to be confronted with. “Do you ever miss it?”

Remus starts to say something, but cuts himself off on a breath. Sirius tilts his head to the side, considering. They just might be thinking the same thing. _Yes_ , they might be thinking. Or, _maybe, sometimes_. But neither of them answer Harry outright.

“I would,” Harry supplies instead, grabbing for the bottle of wine again. Remus would object, but he’s looser-lipped than he’s been in months, and it’s...nice, actually. Like before. Like…like James and Lily, maybe.

“So which do you prefer, then?” Sirius asks, grabbing the bottle from Harry’s hand. “Bark or bite?”

Harry blushes. Embarrassment. Or maybe it’s the drink.

“I,” He says, gathering some strength on an inhale, “I like to be the one in charge. I think – being so out of control for so long, you know? I think I like…like having other people do what I want. It’s…different.”

Remus nods. He can understand that. His own desires were situated somewhere similar.

“And,” Harry continues without prompting, “I guess I like being able to ask for whatever I want without feeling guilty about it. It’s…well, it’s _hot_.” He says the last bit with a throaty inflection.

Remus nods again, a bit less comfortable, and he swears he…well, he _thinks_ he sees Sirius squirm a little. A squirm he recognizes. A squirm he recognizes too well. And he should probably shut all of this down now.

“The trouble is,” Harry begins before Remus can interject, “ _finding_ people. People who…who don’t want anything in particular from me – you know?” He looks up at them eagerly. “Who don’t want ‘the chosen one’, who just want _me_. It’s…that bit’s hard.”

Harry goes for the bottle again, but Remus grabs it before he can. It’s nearly empty now, and he’s beginning to feel uncomfortably flushed.

“Maybe you aren’t looking in the right places,” Sirius says, shifting again. Remus shoots him a sharp, warning glance that Sirius acknowledges by pulling back a little.

“I don’t think I am,” Harry says. His voice has dropped into something sharp and sure, something confident, and it makes both Remus and Sirius spin their gaze directly to his face. What Remus sees there is…well…Remus can see now how Harry would make a good top.

“Pudding?” Remus asks, his voice high and wobbly. He stands before he can embarrass himself further, but when he returns with the trifle and three small dessert plates, he catches Harry and Sirius staring at each other, intently, as if in some sort of contest that Remus didn’t sign on to referee.

“You know,” Harry says, moving to finish off the last of the wine. He doesn’t break eye contact with Sirius. “I’ve actually had my eye on someone.”

“Is that so?” Sirius replies, his voice gravelly. “And what’s keeping you from them?”

Remus is frozen to the spot, stupidly holding a bowl of strawberry jam and vanilla cake. He shuffles a bit, knowing he should say _something_ and not sure what and wanting…maybe…wanting to see where this is headed…

“Don’t know if they’re interested,” Harry shrugs.

“Well,” Sirius says, leaning towards Harry, “why don’t you just ask?”

“Dessert’s going to get cold,” Remus says, and then internally chastises himself. He’s just pulled it from the _refrigerator_. But it doesn’t matter, neither Harry nor Sirius seem to have registered the interruption.

“Not really my style,” Harry says confidently. It’s – well _fine_ – it’s a bit sexy, the way he says it, the way his shoulders firm into a confident line down his back, the way his eyes twinkle with something brave and sure and beautiful, the way…

“Sirius,” Remus says weakly, “can I talk to you in the bedroom for a moment?”

Sirius finally breaks eye contact with Harry, but only after several seconds more. He gets up and follows Remus into the bedroom, where he closes the door behind him and looks at Remus expectantly.

“We can’t…” Remus begins. Predictably.

“Why?” Sirius asks. And _damn_ , if Remus can’t think of a good answer.

_Because he’s young because he’s our godson because it isn’t right because I was his teacher because_

“You know why.”

_Because he’s James and Lily’s._

Sirius places a warm hand on Remus’s shoulder. “Moony,” He says smoothly. But there’s something else there, too. Something entirely sincere. “Moony, say the word, and we put a stop to this.” Remus’s mind begins to whirl, whirls with _no_ and _maybe_ and _but…_ and _because_ , but he doesn’t say anything. “But something tells me Harry needs this more than we do.”

And that’s what does it. Call it love or overprotectiveness or a lame, terrible excuse, but that’s what does it.

“I thought so,” Sirius says, a little smugly, and goes back to the table.

-*-

“Pin his hair up,” Harry says. It’s a bit startling, how quickly he’s fallen into this role.

“Oh, Moony, he’s _fussing_ over us,” Sirius says sweetly. It’s too playful.

“I’ll fuss over you if I want,” Harry says in a tone that barters no debate. “Pin it back.”

Remus looks at Harry only for a second, just a tiny hiccup, and then moves behind Sirius and begins to gather his shoulder-length, black-and-gray strands into his hands, loosely brushing his fingers through the roots to even out any bumps. He secures it with a band and then looks up at Harry expectantly.

“On your knees, Padfoot,” Harry says. Sirius looks between them, excitement bursting surely behind his eyes. He’s enjoying this far too much.

“He wants you to be able to see my pretty face,” Sirius says to Remus, batting his eyelashes.

“I want you to be able to see his eyes water,” Harry corrects. His tone is hard and cold, like steel.

Remus actually jolts back a little bit, involuntarily, his eyes going wide. Sirius just smirks, taking the statement as a challenge. What is it they say about old dogs and new tricks?

“On your knees,” Harry says again. He won’t say it a third time.

Remus couldn’t appear any more apprehensive as Sirius drops eagerly to the rug, which itself Harry vanishes so that Sirius’s bony knees rest directly on the hardwood. He doesn’t miss Remus’s hesitancy, though he wishes he had.

“’Red’ is your safeword, Remus – remember?”

Remus looks up at Harry, nods. It’s absurd – _Harry_ reminding Remus of how to say no. Something about it is unjust, but none of them can change that. They can’t change the world or the law or the last twenty-nine years of Harry’s life, but Remus _can_ grab Sirius by the hair. He doesn’t – necessarily – want to. But Harry wants him to, and he can. So he does.

“Give him something to suck,” Harry says, and Remus goes for his belt buckle. “No, not that yet. Give him your fingers.”

Remus looks up at Harry – bold, carnivorous eyes – and down at Sirius – half-lidded and restless – and reluctantly dips his thumb in between Sirius’s parted lips, which close around it almost immediately. Spurred on, Remus gives him more, pushing into Sirius’s mouth until he’s taken Remus’s thumb down to the knuckle. It rests against Sirius’s tongue, which Sirius curls around it. It fits there, almost, somehow it just–

“Further,” Harry commands.

Remus pushes, past the swollen knuckle at the base of the joint and deeper into Sirius’s mouth. He feels it hit the back of Sirius’s throat, and his eyes flutter closed. Sirius almost gags – almost – but instead he swallows, and it’s – oh _fuck_ , it’s something.

Harry considers them with a little hum. “No,” He says, “no, it’s not right.” Remus and Sirius both look at him, Sirius having to jerk his head away from Remus’s thumb to do so. “Sirius, stand up.”

Harry begins circling them, slowly, as Sirius does what he’s told, wobbling a little as he gets to his feet. Remus reaches out to steady him, and it sends a little jolt through Harry. “On your back, Padfoot,” Harry says suddenly, motioning to the bed when Sirius looks at him.

“Harry…” Remus begins.

“Are you using your safe word?” Harry asks impatiently, fixing Remus with a quick, sharp look.

Remus takes a moment to think about it. Is he? Does he want to stop? Or is he just trying to fight those gremlins again, the ones that pop up on either shoulder whenever he feels he’s crossing into morally grey territory?

“No,” He says, dipping his chin a little to make better eye contact with Harry.

“Good, then there’s no need to say my name,” Harry replies. He’s miles and miles away, stiffer than cardboard. Remus wants to go to him, to hug him, but he wouldn’t dare. Not with Harry’s stark, green eyes boring into him like that.

“On the bed, Padfoot,” Harry says again, impatient with having to repeat himself.

Sirius is a dog, does whatever he’s told even if on the second try. He pads over to the bed, laying atop it gently and positioning his head at the top.

“Hang your head off the side,” Harry instructs. “Remus,” He says, motioning to him, “behind him.”

Remus chokes on the beginning of something that sounds rather like an h, but brings his palm to his face instead, scrubbing over his lips before he does as he’s told. He positions himself on the side of the bed, behind Sirius’s head, which he lolls backwards with a suggestive lick of his lips.

“Try again,” Harry says. He sounds like a film director, and an impatient one at that.

Remus hopes he understands the instruction, inserting his thumb into Sirius’s mouth again. At this angle, he has to rest his fingers under Sirius’s chin, and he’s struck with the startling urge to curl them down even further, over Sirius’s windpipe. He doesn’t – of course – but pushes his thumb back between Sirius’s eagerly parted lips. Sirius applies a bit of suction this time, as if trying to coax the digit further into his throat and, without being told, Remus complies, watching his appendage disappear into the depths of Sirius’s hot mouth.

“Better,” Harry says, almost to himself. A bolt of pride shoots through Sirius, tinting his cheeks.

Sirius sucks harder, twirling his tongue around the tip of Remus’s thumb, and Remus’s cock jumps a little at the sensation, at how that same sensation feels when it’s his cock in Sirius’s mouth instead. He wonders when – if ever, given how Harry’s got them so far – he’ll be allowed to give Sirius his cock.

“Make him gag on it, Remus,” Harry says impatiently. He’s about to remind Harry of Sirius’s forty-plus years of experience giving head to things much longer than Remus’s thumb, but just as the words begin to form, Sirius sucks hard, bringing Remus further into his throat and sputtering as his thumbnail tickles the edge of Sirius’s gag reflux.

“Better,” Harry says again, and again, Sirius swells with pride. He’s such a fucking _dog_.

Remus is starting to feel a little light-headed, and unlike Sirius, his airway has remained perfectly unobstructed. He still has no idea what they’re doing, no idea why he’s agreed to this, but Sirius has worked past the sputtering, is now swallowing Remus right into his fucking throat, and he realizes somewhat unexpectedly that he’s…hard. Very hard, actually.

“You can give him your cock now, Remus,” Harry says. He’s crossed his arms over his chest. He looks like a solicitor, Remus thinks, like he’s observing the scene for expert testimony and not sexual gratification. But they’ll deal with that later.

Remus extracts his thumb against Sirius’s moaned protests and undoes his fly quickly as he can manage with hands that are…are shaking, for some reason. He pulls out his cock, which is angry and purple and harder than he’d like to admit, and holds it tentatively in his hand.

“Give it to him, Remus,” Harry says, apparently not appreciating Remus’s thoughtfulness. “Don’t go slowly. Give it to him all at once.”

Sirius nods and releases a small little whimper. Remus doesn’t – he doesn’t, strictly speaking – prefer this, and yet he can picture it, picture forcing his cock into Sirius’s throat, can picture how, from this angle, he’d be able to see Sirius swallow around it, see his own cock inside of Sirius and…and…

“ _Now_ , Remus.” Harry is impatient. Has Harry always been this impatient?

He doesn’t give himself time to think, time to talk himself out of it, just slips the swollen head past Sirius’s lips, feels the texture of Sirius’s tongue against his slit, so _different_ and _pleasant_ and _soft_ , and then keeps pushing. The textured roof of Sirius’s mouth glides over the underside of his cock as he feeds Sirius more and more and – oh _yes_ , they will definitely have to try this position again – and then he meets the resistance of the spot with Sirius’s mouth narrows into his throat. Sirius does gag, chokes a little, and Remus considers backing away, but Sirius’s palms are on his hips, pulling him in further. Sirius chokes and gags and sputters and swallows and before he knows it, the thicket of pubic hair at the base of Remus’s cock tickles Sirius’s beard. Sirius has taken him…all of him…at this angle…and…

“Now fuck his mouth.”

Remus is going to die, probably. He’s going to die right here. He can’t fathom thrusting into Sirius’s mouth like this, but he also can’t fathom disobeying Harry or the eager hands that still grip his hips, so he does. He pulls out halfway, and then thrusts back in. Out halfway, and then back in. He speeds up a little, still giving Sirius time to adjust his throat muscles around Remus every time, but–

“Remus,” Harry’s voice is commanding, dominating. Remus looks up from where his eyes have been glued on Sirius’s face, looks at Harry, who is flushed but steady. “I said _fuck his mouth_.”

Remus keeps his eyes on Harry. A little stupidly, he sputters his hips, brings his cock almost entirely out of Sirius’s mouth and then thrusts back in. Sirius gags harder, squeezes Remus’s hips, but Remus vaguely registers their agreement, their gestures of _stop_ and _slow down_ , and this is neither. He’s _shocked_ at the revelation, but this is neither.

Remus begins to lose himself in the sensation, in the visual of Sirius’s throat as it takes Remus’s cock and lets it go and takes it in again.

“No, Sirius,” Harry says as Sirius goes for his own cock. It’s short and chastising, parental almost. Sirius whines so loudly it sends vibrations through Remus’s thighs. “I have plans for you,” Harry continues under his breath. It’s a promise. Such a promise that Remus throws his head back, moans almost silently, his cock jumping as he wonders what kind of ‘plans’ Harry might have in mind.

Sirius stops dead in his tracks, returns his wandering hand to Remus’s hip. _Old dogs can learn new tricks, after all_ , Harry thinks.

“Harder, Remus,” Harry says, and Remus looks at him pleadingly, to which Harry just nods. He listens, though, plunges into Sirius’s mouth with more gusto and brings his own hand to wrap around Sirius’s neck with something that is either loving or possessive or – well, it’s both, probably. Harry allows it.

“ _Fuck_ , Sirius…” Remus says, and then he catches his own mistake, looks at Harry and says, “Harry. Fuck…Harry, it’s… _fuck_.”

Harry smirks, an expression that is pure satisfaction. “Prep yourself, Sirius,” Harry says.

It’s a good thing Sirius could perform a wandless, wordless lubrication spell in his sleep, because right now he has access to neither his wand nor his words. He bends his knees quickly, reaches between his legs to insert two fingers – _two_ fingers, fuck – and begins scissoring himself open with zero finesse. Harry almost makes him slow down, savor it, but he’s more entertained by Sirius’s impatience, so he just watches as two, and then three, and then four fingers work their way in and out of Sirius’s purple hole, watches as Remus continues to fuck Sirius mouth, slowing a bit to catch a glimpse of his own between Sirius’s legs.

The scene’s gotten away from him a bit, so Harry claps his hands once, commandingly. Both men slow.

“Enough,” He says. “Remus, you’re going to fuck him now. You’re going to – _Remus_.” Remus’s name is hard and sharp, makes Remus pause just after removing his cock from Sirius’s mouth with an obscene _pop_ and stare directly at Harry, exactly what Harry wants. “You’re going to fuck him _hard_.”

Harry has begun to recognize the look that Remus gives him in return, the look of someone who wouldn’t deny Harry his request even if he wanted to. The look of someone who doesn’t want to – not really.

“Do you understand?” Harry asks. “You’re going to fuck him so hard it _hurts_ , Remus. You’re going to fuck him so hard he screams.”

Remus gulps comically. He nods, a few quick movements, and Harry just _loves_ this part. “And Sirius?” Harry asks, not taking his eyes off of Remus. “How do you feel about that?”

“Fuck,” Sirius moans. He’s darting his eyes back and forth between Remus and Harry, and it’s only by sheer miracle that he hasn’t reached for his own cock, which appears painfully hard against his belly. “ _Please_.”

Another few seconds between Harry and Remus – just long enough for Harry to reestablish dominance – and Remus finally looks away, down at Sirius, who to his credit has not gone for his cock, but is fingering himself animatedly.

“Go on, then,” Harry instructs.

With Harry’s instruction, Sirius repositions himself, ass straight up in the air and nearly at the edge of the bed, so Remus can stand behind him.

“Hard, Remus,” Harry reminds him as Remus lines himself up. The groan Sirius releases as Remus enters him is positively indecent, low and slow and indulgent. And Remus – to his credit – gives Sirius no time to adjust, pulls back his hips and slams them into Sirius with a force Harry himself is impressed by.

“Good,” Harry says, just as Remus says, “Harry,” and Sirius says something like, “Merlin’s fucking bollocks,” and then they’re off.

Remus sets a pace that is brutal and rhythmic, his large hands holding Sirius’s hips in place as he uses the leverage of his feet on the floor to plunge into Sirius’s body. The sounds that fill the air fill Harry up – the moans of the two men, the obscene squelching of the place where their bodies meet, the way the heavy wooden bedframe starts to scoot across the floor on each particularly hard thrust. Harry starts to become lost in it, in the sounds and the faces they make and the smells of sweat and sweetness and sex, and he wants to go for his own cock. Wants it so badly he squeezes his thighs together to alleviate some of the tension. But he waits, knowing it will be better the longer he does.

“Fuck, Harry,” Remus says, voice raw and hoarse, “I won’t last, I–ah _fuck_.” Sirius is moaning with complete abandon, squealing like a banshee into the stuffy air of the bedroom.

In another time and place, Harry might make them slow down. He might even make them stop altogether, tease each other for minutes or hours or all night. But Harry needs to watch them come almost as badly as they need to come, he’s _high_ on it.

“Together,” Harry says, voice a bit squeakier than he’d prefer. “You can come if you can come together.”

Harry hopes desperately that two men who have been fucking as long as Remus and Sirius have can coordinate such a thing, and there’s a little pang in the pit of Harry’s stomach at the thought. Painful, it is, jealous even, but…

“Later,” Harry says under his breath. And then, “No, not you,” he clarifies at Remus’s confused expression. “Come. Together, come.”

Remus bends over Sirius, whispers something into Sirius’s hair that Harry would give nearly anything to be able to hear, and then Sirius’s is gripping himself with so little finesse Harry is a little proud of himself – proud at how he’s been able to take these two men apart – and Harry does hear as Remus growls, “Come with me, Padfoot.”

Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything so wonderful – so awful and harrowing and incredible all at once – and Harry has seen a great many things. But as Sirius brings himself to the edge, Remus follows him there, and as if pushing him, they fall over the cliff in complete tandem. Sirius screams something like Remus’s name and Harry’s in one, and Remus grunts something completely unintelligible, and they collapse into each other as if they are what’s been keeping the other upright. Remus finishes with a few final, small jerks of his hips, his hands palming Sirius’s skin so tightly that his knuckles go white.

They lie panting – Remus on top of Sirius and Sirius groping the air he can’t see to touch whatever part of Remus he can – and Harry suddenly feels very out of place, very like he’s witnessing something he’s not supposed to. He looks away as Remus wriggles off of Sirius, feels suddenly as if he should perhaps just leave, just slip out the door and let these two men who love each other more than they could ever _possibly_ love harry–

“Harry?” It’s Remus’s voice, and it’s softer than Harry would have expected. “Harry, look at us.”

Harry turns slowly back around, his face gone red and shameful at…at something, he doesn’t quite know.

He knows he should say something, something to continue the scene or stop it, at least, but he can’t quite speak. He can’t quite _move_.

“Come get in bed with us,” Remus says gently.

Harry doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink, just stares down at the floor and feels his heart as it beats in his chest. He should go. He shouldn’t be here, encroaching on the private moments of these two men, he doesn’t belong–

“Harry – _please_.”

It’s Sirius this time. And Harry likes begging. It makes his cock hard. But this isn’t the kind of begging he likes. Something in Sirius’s eyes is a bit too sincere, a bit too earnest. It causes Harry’s throat to stick and his eyes to want to look away.

“I don’t…” He doesn’t know what.

“Please let us take care of you,” Sirius says, voice still half-gone.

“I don’t need to be–”

He cuts himself off. He’s the top – and a damn good one, at that – so of course neither Remus nor Sirius would dare. It’s him. He stops himself mid-sentence, because he finds that he is lying. And Harry has lied a great many times about a great many things – about the secrets Dumbledore asked him to keep and about his family and about his feelings and about his favorite bloody pudding – but he doesn’t want to lie. Not here. What is _here_ if not for truths, no matter how ugly they might be? What is _here_ if not for ugly things?

“Harry,” It’s Remus who says it this time. It’s a whisper, almost, or at least it’s so far in the back of his throat that it sounds like one.

“I–” Harry begins, “I don’t _want_ –”

“We know,” Sirius says with a gentle nod. He doesn’t know. _Harry_ doesn’t know. But he says it so confidently, so confidently that Harry takes a step forward. And then another. And a third.

Remus pulls back the sheet next to him, opens his arm to welcome Harry into the crook of it. Harry isn’t ready to be welcomed just there, not just yet, but he does sit on the edge of the bed, right where the sheets have been pulled down for him. Remus nods, refusing to break eye contact with Harry.

Harry shivers a little, pretending it’s from the chill in the room. Remus pretends to ignore it.

“Go on,” Sirius says, perking up a bit. “Lean on Moony. He’s warm as a furnace, I promise.”

It might be Sirius’s encouragement that he needs, a reminder from Remus’s partner of longer than Harry has been alive that this is…fine. Allowed.

He moves uncomfortably as he leans back on Remus’s arm, bringing his legs to rest against the bed in what he hopes appears casual but must appear as stiff as his muscles feel, because Remus nuzzles his nose into Harry’s hair. “One sec, Harry,” He says, and in a few smooth movements and not one single word at all, Sirius and Remus have repositioned themselves so there’s a perfect, Harry-size gap between them. Remus motions with his head, encouraging Harry to take his place in the gap. He does, hesitantly, but it’s not until two hands are on him – two hands from two men who just might love him more than anyone else – that he settles into the spot.

“Can we touch you?” Remus whispers.

Harry hesitates again, looking at him with wide, uncertain eyes. “Let us touch you,” Sirius says instead, and Harry nods. Of _course_ he would need to be told instead of asked.

Sirius’s hands move first, over the thick black hair that coats Harry’s chest and down to his left nipple, which he tweaks between his fingers. He nods to Remus, motioning for him to do the same. Remus does, pinching Harry’s other nipple between his own fingers and bringing his lips to Harry’s neck. Sirius follows suit, and soon, they each have a sure hand on his chest and a warm mouth on his neck, and the cohesiveness – the _togetherness_ – causes Harry to moan, to arch a little into their combined touch.

“Touch his pretty dick, Padfoot,” Remus says, and _Harry_ thought he was the one giving the orders here, thank you, but – oh. But Sirius’s hand is so warm, so sure, as it circles around his rock-hard cock and begins to stroke with spell-created slickness. Expert, it is. Expert and loving and – and together.

“Do you like Sirius touching your cock, Harry?” Remus growls into his hear, nipping the lobe between his teeth.

All Harry can do is nod, is expose more of his neck for them to lick and suck and claim.

“He’s so hard, Moony,” Sirius says, and there’s something about the way they’re talking about him, like he can’t hear them, like he’s some sacred, precious thing, that makes him want to chase his orgasm right into Sirius’s hand. Remus has other plans, though, or so it would seem, because Sirius asks, “Can I suck him, Moony?” Asks like a dog. And old dog, sure, but a dog.

Remus nods permissively and Sirius moves so quickly, down the bed and onto his knees and circles his mouth around Harry’s cock, that Harry can’t quite register the change in sensation from Sirius’s rough palm to his soft, hot, eager mouth. It’s good, though. _Fuck_ , is it good.

“Isn’t his mouth amazing?” Remus whispers, right into Harry’s ear. It sends prickles straight down the back of his neck, straight down his spine and right into his cock in the form of a drop of precum that Sirius licks from his tip indulgently and swallows down.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry says again, all pretense of control gone.

“Suck his balls, Padfoot,” Remus says. And Sirius does, licks down his shaft and then takes one and then the other into his mouth, sucking eagerly. Remus takes Harry’s shaft into his hand and just holds, tightly. Harry groans. “He’s loving this, Harry,” Remus says. “He loves sucking you – licking you – he’s going to love milking the come from you, Harry…”

And now _Harry_ is going to die. He’s going to die, right here, and his loved ones are going to have to explain why he died naked in the bed of his godfathers, and he’s going to go straight to hell. And he would. He would, so long as Sirius keeps moving his tongue like that.

“Do you want Sirius to lick your asshole, Harry?” Remus asks, moving his palm slowly up Harry’s cock, and _fuck fuck fuck_ , yes. No. Yes. _Fuck_.

“Ungh,” Harry replies.

“Do you think that’s a ‘yes’, Padfoot?” Remus asks.

Harry should slap him, should spank him for that tone. But he can’t. Because he’s dying. Sirius hums, and the sensation goes straight through Harry’s balls, straight down his crack and to his asshole, and “ _Yes_. Fuck, yes.”

Sirius laps playfully at Harry’s scrotum once more, might chuckle a little, and Harry should spank him for that, too. But his tongue is flat and sure and wet and rough as it passes over Harry’s opening the first time, and then it’s sharp and pointed, breaching him. And then it’s both, each in turn, soft and firm and rough and wet and Harry is going to come. Harry needs Remus to _speed up his fucking hand_ , because he is going to come.

“As you wish,” Remus growls around a smile, and Harry wonders only passively how much of those last few thoughts he said out loud. Remus tightens his fist, brings it up and over the head of Harry’s cock, back down the other side and over again, and Sirius’s tongue is so sure, and both of them work so perfectly…so perfectly, _together_.

“Ohgods,” Harry moans. He bucks off the bed and clenches and comes, long, sustaining spurts that land on Remus’s hand and in Sirius’s hair. It’s _filthy_. And it’s wonderful.

They gather Harry up in their arms, tight and warm, and Harry didn’t intend to stay the night here tonight. He didn’t itend for any of this to happen, really. But Remus and Sirius, on either side of him, hold him like he belongs there. And for a moment – and maybe for longer than a moment – Harry wonders if maybe he’s part of the _together_.

But they’ll think about that later.

-*-

Everyone always said it, but Harry knew that he did not, in fact, have Lily’s eyes.

He first noticed it after studying the scrapbook Hagrid gifted him first year, noticed the way that – aside from the color – they were not terribly alike at all. Harry knew his own eyes well, had spent countless hours in front of the bathroom mirror at the Durley’s experimenting with ways to part his hair so it covered his scar. He knew them to be oblong, almond-shaped and narrower, and Lily’s were doe-like, apropos of her Patronus. He took the repeated compliments – “you look just like your father, except your eyes,” he’d hear over and over again – as they were intended, as gestures of love for the two people who created him, gestures of love for Harry, too.

But it’s a relief, when Sirius corrects the mistake. “They’re not Lily’s,” he says to Harry, curled around him on the couch one morning. “They’re entirely your own.”

Harry looks up at him, wonders what made him say that – but then, Sirius says so very many things Harry wonders about. So he just smiles, just lets Sirius kiss him on the temple, and goes back to reading his Auror’s report.

“But then,” Harry says a few moments later, when Remus has returned with the coffee and sat down on the other side of Harry, “do I have _anything_ that belongs to her?”

Remus and Sirius share a glance between them – long and lingering – and the same smile crosses their lips, the same warm, gentle togetherness. “Oh yes,” Remus says fondly. He places a hand over Harry’s heart, a hand warm from the coffee and the fire in the hearth and the way Remus is always a little warm, and looks into his eyes with a kind of love that is for him, alone. “Yes, Harry. A great many things.”


End file.
